It was there waiting for him when Lloyd left work. He rounded a van as he thought of opening a beer when he got home, of sitting down on the couch and not moving until hunger drove him out into the world. His car came into view, an envelope glowing in the golden afternoon sun beneath his windshield wiper. His stomach churned with the angry memories of parking tickets past. His perambulation slowed to a…

Nothing was out of place, it was a perfect parking job. When he got closer, he saw a sprawl of letters, Aberghast, his surname, scrawled face up on the envelope. He slid it out from the wiper, unlocked and sat in the car. The envelope was thin, containing maybe just a single piece of paper, but the content was firm and difficult to bend. He cracked the window and lit a cigarette, he took an end of the paper and shook it, driving the insides to the opposite end before tearing open the other side. He reached in and pulled out a playing card. A man in bright and obscene dress stood at the edge of a cliff, a flower in one hand, a foot poised to step out onto nothing.

He slid the card back into the envelope and tore it clean in two, tossed it out of the window, and went about his commute.

The sun was inching its way upward, cracking a smile over the horizon when Lloyd left his apartment the next morning. Every plate and glass were soaking in the sink for the evening's duty upon his return. He burned his tongue on his coffee and spat away his hatred of the world and there, beneath his windshield wiper, was another envelope. Inside were two cards: the one he had tossed aside in the parking lot the day before, the pieces taped together, and another of an old man in a dark robe, holding a stick and a lantern to ward against the night. He tossed it to the passenger's seat and forgot about them.

As he sat at his desk between calls, he watched his coworkers. Don was sitting at Nicole's desk as he did during his breaks, laughing between bites of Chinese food. They were unaware of their place in the office's interest. Nicole had three children and still lived with their father, a man of more height and girth than Dan, one with a police history that should have warned away Dan's attentions, but he was young and sure of his feelings for the woman. It was common knowledge through Carli that their first date was to the Cheesecake Factory, a fact often used to the more jovial coworker's advantage, be it subtle comments about the cheesecake they had last night for dessert or questions to Nicole of her favorite flavor. She said New York style and went about her duties. The desk to his right was empty. Yesterday, Michelle was walked out of the office, taking only her purse with her. The desk had already been picked over, shelves and lamps repurposed by the greedy. David was eating sushi across from Lloyd, doing what he could to display the image of a man not surfing the internet and failing. Lloyd tapped away at his keyboard and kept an eye watching out of the corner for Nancy. The boss was on a conference call in her office. It was a regular day.

When he left work for the start of his weekend, the envelope was absent from the passenger seat. He knew the car had been locked. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and scratched his nose, turned the ignition and left for home. After ten minutes he unlocked his apartment's door and was hit by a wave. There was something out of place. He walked through the kitchen, into the living room. A glass of water was sitting on the coffee table beside another envelope. The ink across the paper read "Come to me, eleven," and inside were the original cards and a new one. A tower in the midst of waves being struck by lightning. There was only one place it could be in the area. He had several hours before he was to be there. There was no question, Lloyd would show up. He sat on his couch and turned on the television, his eyes taking in the visages but nothing made an impression.

At eight, he left.

The Harbor was a lone vestige of nature in ruin and decay. Grand avenue took you through streets devoid of commerce save for liquor and food. Then came the downtown, where the city tried to maintain a semblance of prosperity. Buildings were being built or retrofitted to bring in artists with disposable income or businesses in need of lower overhead. Farther still you curved around the train station, the lake shimmering just past hundreds of boats, yachts or sail, dry-docked. Take a left and you cut through dead industry. Cars rusted to the rails and tagged by MS13 imitators. Great silos of concrete and hills of gypsum behind fences. Warehouses empty of stock. Fields of burnt greenery. Off in the distance, the spires and chimneys of an ancient power plant. Then it comes to sand and grass, soft rolling hills and the lapping waves of a lake that stretched far behind the horizon. Lloyd and parked and waited.

Cars came and went. Children screamed with joy, gulls chanted their desire for the detritus of the day's pleasures. Couples strolled hand in hand, steeling kisses when they could. The beach was to close by six, and soon it was him alone there in the municipal beach. Down the break, far into the water, the lighthouse came on, flashing out into the growing dark. When his watch read ten he got out of his car and wandered down to the beach. Snug between two breaks, the water lapped at the shore. Farther out, the waves were choppy, the wind fiercely bullying whatever it could.

He sat in the sand and watched the lighthouse. He tried lighting a cigarette but his lighter had found its better in the wind. The lighthouse was at the end of a long concrete break. In daylight, fishers came from all around to try their hands, fighting with the birds and the ghosts of the lake for every catch. The light circled slowly, each minute ticking away. The assigned hour came and he was alone. No cars had pulled into the lot, no soul wandered this refuge. He stood and arched his back to break away from the discomfort that had built. This was a waste of time, Lloyd thought to himself.

He sent one last glimpse to the lighthouse and saw a spark floating out in the dark. The cherry of a cigarette. His caller was waiting for him. To get to the break, you had to wander through paths cut into the dunes. With the bright moon he picked his way over condom wrappers and beer bottles, cigarette butts and fast food not fit for even the gulls. The sand was soft and made the going slow, each step sinking deeper than the one before. Finally he came to the break.

The concrete was eroded by years of surf and wind, pocked with bird shit and graffiti, rebar exposed like the rib of a decaying leviathan. The wind pushed him constantly side to side and the water sprayed him until his clothes were soaked. Farther he went out into the water, his eyes watching the small point of light dance out at the base of the lighthouse. When he was a hundred feet away, a form began to emerge from the darkness. A man in a suit, his jacket waving wildly about. Closer and Lloyd saw him to be tall and thin. More bone than fat or muscle. The man waited patiently until Lloyd stood before him.

"Are you happy, Mr. Aberghast?" The man's voice warbled on the wind, barely anything to it.

"You've been in my car. In my home?" Lloyd did not know if he was more angry or curious, but chose to adapt the former in his words.

"Yes. Are you happy?" His hand brought the cigarette once again to his lips, and with each exhalation the smoke whipped away, out into the nothingness over the water.

"As a man can be."

"The cards brought me to you. They told me of your past, of the days you spend in a mire of your own making. You are a fool standing at the edge of a great void, but you're too afraid to take that needed step."

The man turned towards the lake and started to walk around the base of the lighthouse, edging close to the edge where rocks sharpened by eons waited. Lloyd followed automatically. "The first card was you. The second maybe me. Someone to guide you along your path. I could be wrong, as the cards reveal only what they want. The third brought us here. This is a place of change and chaos for us, Mr. Aberghast." They walked to the farthest edge, the wind greedily ripping at the two men. The tall man tossed his cigarette out to the wash and it was taken away by the currents and from his pocket took out another cigarette. He held it in his lips and produced a simple lighter. Even in the wind, the flame caught the tobacco alight. "The only way to find your place is to face this chaos head on."

The man pushed Lloyd softly forward. The wind did the rest of the work. When he knew he was going in, Lloyd's last effort was to jump, to try to make it beyond the rocks before he broke the surface. The man watched and there was a smile as Lloyd went under, the waves pounding against the concrete and rock. The man waited for Lloyd to surface and enjoyed his cigarette.

The gas station attendant set his paper aside and adjusted himself as he glanced at the clock. At two am, he wasn't expecting much in the way of traffic. His cash register was fifty miles from everything. Most of his business wound up being late night truckers in need of a caffeine fix or stupid tourists misled by their GPS. The truckers were always good for a story or two when they weren't tweaked out,…

There'd be stretches of days where he wouldn't see another soul. That suited him. He'd grown up the youngest of eight on a farm. When he'd turned eighteen he'd taken the first Greyhound out of town and never looked back. His mother always told him God watched over him. Her sanctimonious yapping was half the reason he left.

Instead of being kicked by unruly livestock or chasing pigs, all he had to do was watch a couple of monitors and take people's money. No more bites or bruises, or the shit smell that soaked into everything. Given a choice between the farm and here, he knew where he'd put his money. For all the boredom, there were some perks to the job. The view overlooking the pumps, camera four, had his attention at the moment.

She'd pulled up in a beat-up pickup truck with out of state plates. The truck had seen better days; there was more Bondo and rust than paint.

"What are you running from, little girl?" he asked himself with a smile as she'd struggled with the pump. Her petite frame was hidden by an over-sized biker jacket. He imagined her sitting on a phone book to see over the steering wheel. Every couple of seconds she'd steal a nervous glance towards the door of his station.

He'd seen her type before. Wives, sisters, daughters, all on the run from something, hunched over in ill-fitting clothes, sometimes sporting a fat lip or black eye, their hands shaking as they filled up their getaway cars and trucks, afraid to look over their shoulder. They'd race inside to throw their money at him before disappearing into the night.

Every once in a while though, one would act up and drive off without paying. Usually they gave him the 'I forgot my wallet in the car' line as they looked up at him with wet doe eyes. He'd fallen for it once or twice before wising up.

No one ever came looking for them or asked after them.

That suited him just fine.

The door chimed as she rushed in, breezing past him with her head down. Black sunglasses too big for her face were half-hidden under an unruly veil of lank blond hair. Curling her shoulders forward, she buried her hands deep in the pockets. The worn black coat swallowed her waifish figure; the hem of a sundress peeking out from underneath. Her skinny knees were dirty and bruised. Scuffed black boots echoed in the quiet store as she skulked from aisle to aisle. For almost an hour, she feigned interest in the various parts of the store all the while stealing glances at him over her shoulder. The cameras showed him everything - her tiny hands darting just out of sight before disappearing back into the jacket. He couldn't help but admire her. She was good.

Not too bright though.

A good thief would have been in and out in a blink. Five minutes or less. Anything longer, especially at this hour, and even the dumbest clerk would start to wonder.

He kept his eyes on the monitor as she shuffled up to the counter. Her head disappeared from view for a moment as she knelt down. He could make out the quiet rustling as her fingers danced over the boxes of candy bars. When she popped back up, he could see the veins in her throat pounding. Her pallid skin flushed pink. With shaking hands, she placed a candy bar on the counter.

Placing a hand over hers, his fingertips rested on her wrists. Just enough pressure that if she tried to pull back he'd hold her fast. "Is that all?"

Still trembling, she nodded. Her head bobbed quickly enough that her sunglasses slipped down her nose half an inch, just barely covering her eyes.

Smiling warmly, he leaned close enough to see his reflection in the oversized shades. "Are you sure?" He'd learned at an early age: it didn't matter what you said, it was how you said it. If your tone was right, you could call a pig or lamb every dirty word under the sun and it would lie perfectly still as you cut its throat.

Shifting his weight, he let his foot slide to the button on the floor under the counter. The front door buzzed like an angry hornet as a little red light blinked to life over it. The girl jumped with a yelp and tried to pull back, but he held her fast. Still smiling, he brought his other hand from beneath the counter and cocked the hammer of his .357.

"I reckon you're in a bad way, but I can't tolerate being lied to," he said. "The front door is locked. Now, I'm going to let your hands go. When I do, you're gonna take your jacket off and place it on the counter. If you ain't hiding anything, I'm gonna apologize. If you are, I'm calling the police and you can explain it to them. Okay?"

Tight-lipped and ashen-faced, the girl nodded.

Releasing her hands, he kept the gun carefully aimed and tilted his head to one side as she slid out of the jacket. Her slender arms were milky white and unblemished. He could tell at a glance she'd bruise easily. Her small breasts and bony hips stabbed at the fabric of the dress. She was skinnier than he liked, but she'd do.

His tone was smooth and even, like honey, "The sunglasses too."

The corners of his mouth twitched with disappointment as she pulled the sunglasses from her face with trembling hands. Her high cheekbones were far too sharp and hollow, accentuating the dark circles under her eyes. She was older than he'd thought, early thirties maybe. And then she looked up. Her pale green eyes were the color of worn money and wide with fear. Something about them pulled him in, twisting his stomach as his throat tightened.

Eyes still on her, he rifled through the jacket. Emptying the pockets one by one, coming up empty until he found a hard lump in the inside pocket where most people kept their wallets. Sliding his hand into the jacket, he pulled out a worn box about the size of a pack of cigars. "What's this?"

"Cards," she said. Her voice was small, but echoed in the empty store. Her eyes were already shiny with tears.

"How were you going to pay for the gas?"

"I- I left my wallet in the truck."

"No you didn't." He rapped the cards with his free hand. "You a gambler then?"

"No, Sir," she said. "I read people."

"Read people?" he said with a laugh. "I heard a lot of shit over the years, but that's a new one, Little Girl. How you do that?"

"With cards. I read people with the cards."

Picking up the deck, he shook it. "You one of those new age hippy-wicca gals?"

"No."

He flipped the deck at her. She flinched as it smacked against her sternum and fell into her hands. "Alright, Little Girl. Read me."

With an audible gulp, she nodded and fumbled with the box. "How many?"

"What?"

Her hands fluttered like dying birds as she shuffled the cards. "I need to know how many cards you want."

His smile began to slip, patience wearing thin. "Does it matter?"

"Up to you," she said. "Most people go for three."

"Why's that?"

"Past, present, future."

The clerk nodded, curious as to what her con might be. "Alright then, Little Girl. Three card Monte. Hit me."

Placing three cards face down on the counter, she looked up. Something had shifted subtly. Her green eyes bore into him.

His fingers tightened on the revolver. "Now what?"

"Turn them over," she said. "Start on your left. I'll tell you what they mean."

With a grunt, he slid his fingers over the cards. Flipping one over, he let out a low whistle as he revealed a faded sketch of a nubile young nymph with long blond hair, surrounded by stars, smiling up at him. The lines and details were perfect, reminding him of the old black and white photos his father had hidden in the closet. "Hey there, that's sweet."

"The star," the girl said, gripping the counter with white knuckles. Her mouth hung slightly open as her chest heaved.

He didn't notice. "What's it mean?"

"Innocence. It's in your past. Something lost," she said. "Her number is seventeen."

Chuckling, he turned over the middle card. "They all like that? I think I'm gonna like this."

This time, the card was upside down. He had to turn his head to the side to make sense of it. The image was of a man in gray robes.

"The hermit," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Inverted. The ninth arcana. He represents wisdom, secrets. He's the hero."

"Inverted? What's that mean?"

"Upside down."

"Oh," he said. His palm was damp as he gripped the revolver tighter. "Does it mean anything?"

"No."

Chuckling to himself, he turned over the last card and froze. An angel gazed up at him. Her narrow face was serene, blond hair cascaded in waves past her shoulders with wings spread wide over a field of coffins, a horn between her lips. But it was the eyes that transfixed him: one blue, one green. Almost a year ago, those same eyes had looked up at him with guileless innocence.

It had been too easy. He'd told her that her ID was forged and faked a phone call to the police, she let herself be cuffed and led off like a lamb. Down in the basement, the memory of her luminous skin was framed by the quiet whimpering sobs and clink of the handcuffs. He'd watch her for hours through the CCTV upstairs as she cried alone in the dark. Every time he came down for her, she'd be an endless river of with tears. "I don't want to die."

When no more tears could be drawn from her, his soul was empty and hollow. He sat for hours afterwards as her body grew cool. Hands shaking under the weight of her dead eyes, he'd nearly turned the pistol on himself.

A tremor crept up his legs as his mind replayed the memory of those pale mismatched eyes. Icy blue and sawbuck green.

Too late, he tried to raise the gun.

The cards scattered like leaves as she flung the deck into the air. Her hands disappeared below the edge of counter, out of his sight, to where the candy bars were kept. When they came up, a steel spike gleamed wickedly in the fluorescent light.

The icepick came down squarely on his wrist, sliding through flesh and lodging in the counter top. The shot echoed like thunder in the empty store. Recoil ripped the gun from his sweat-soaked grasp and it clattered out of reach. Fire raced up his arm, ripping a silent scream from his throat. It felt impossibly large, like a railroad spike driven between the bones of his wrist.

Through a haze of red, he stared down the barrel of his own revolver. His knees went weak as he felt something warm trickle down his leg. She was yelling, but the words were lost under the roar of blood in his ears. All he could hear was the sound of the hammer cocking back.

It had started out a fine afternoon. Skipping through the park, jazz hands out, I was waiting for my friend to return from some business about a girl, when I spotted a squirrel and decided to skip after it. It was in no hurry, allowing me to maintain a fairly close distance. Like me, it seemed to be enjoying the first sunny day of summer.

I called after the squirrel.

It seemed to slow, returning my calls with cheerful chittering which made me feel oddly happy. In some sense we seemed to be communing. A few yards from a tree, our reverie was broken by cheering from a little Asian girl in Hello Kitty clothing. She yelled, "Get the squirrer, Rodney! Get the squirrer!"

I had no clue who this Rodney fella was, but her cries were so lusty and urgent, the squirrel so close, that I was forced to grow more serious in my pursuit. I had to get the squirrer.

I was an arm’s length away from the little bugger when it flopped onto its back, winked at me, then squeaked, “Rrrrrrico! Suave!” Although, the squirrel clearly had its girl woo woo parts splayed, it spoke like a man.

Clearly, this was no ordinary squirrel.

Hello Kitty continued to cheer me on but I was confused, no longer oddly happy. I considered leaving this weird trip to go look for my friend.

As I turned to leave, the squirrel began rubbing the swollen pouch above its nutty brown star furiously. Then furiouser and furiouser until its chittering became choked. It looked straight at me, an ominous stirring in its eyes. Its man voice deepened further as it let loose a series of subharmonic wails pleading for my help.

“My ladybone! Oh! Oh! It hurts. It hurts. How it hurts! Help a poor squirrel out, buddy?

I found myself unable to turn away. I considered the squirrel carefully before replying, “Exactly, how…”

“Rico! Suave! Gerardo! The hair! Rub it! Sing! Pleeeease!” it said.

The squirrel was clearly fucked and I wanted no part of this; although, try as I might, I could not turn away from the gender confused mess in front of me. Chicks with dicks had nothing on this little guy.

Attempting to shrug off its advance, I replied, “Nah, man, not my style.”

But the squirrel persisted, this time in a high pitched feminine voice, and I felt myself involuntarily moved by its plea. “Pleeeeease mister.” To boot, it fluttered its tail in a way I always found to be extremely cute in a squirrel.

I tried to resist. “Fuck you, squirrel,” I said, with as much conviction as I could muster.

It appeared utterly disgusted at my apparent and extreme lyrical ignorance of Gerardo’s piece de resistance. Challenged, I began to hum the song as if to say back at you, buddy.

But the squirrel, translating that as more Yeah Boy than throw down, resumed its woo woo rubbing in a most animated manner. Big jerky strokes, threatening to rip away its walnut-sized pouch of squirrel girlie parts. Loud, wild, animal chittering— in 4/4 timing, no less.

Uncontrollably, my hips began to sway to the sweet sounds of Latino bass. I found myself in tremendous want of a black bandana, a bare chest and a leather jacket.

No white t-shirts for this guy.

Squatting, I let the music bounce my heels against my butt. The squirrel, woo woo at paw, seemed to match my movements.

No! No! No!

But I could not help myself. My lips, having tasted bliss in the form of a demented, self-pleasuring squirrel, betrayed me. Continuing to mostly hum the song out (because I, in fact, only knew two words of the song), I closed my eyes and warmed my face in the sun until the song came to its natural end.

Opening my eyes, I quickly realized three things: 1) that the squirrel was a squirter, 2) that my pants were warm like my face but not from the sun, and 3) that I smelled heavily of salt lick and doggy shampoo.

I averted my gaze from the squirrel only to find Hello Kitty looking down at me, fists balled to hips, completely disgusted.

“Rodney, sick!”

She kneeled down to the perverted rodent. “Poor baby squirrer!”

The squirrel flipped off its back, fluffed out its tail and hopped onto her back pack. As Hello Kitty walked away from me, the squirrel happily chittered out to me, and waved a goopy paw.

“I know, I know, just when you think everything is going easy-peasy, some jerk-off asks you to stick your finger in his butt! Well, I have one bit of advice for you— eat with chopsticks.”

Alone, feeling completely molested and sticky with myself, I pondered the deeper meaning of this strange interaction. But before I could grasp the cosmic significance of it all, my friend had found me.He looked down at me from his furry brown brow. He held a cage with three cats smooshed into it. They cried and meowed lightly and smelled like tuna in olive oil and sweat. He pulled a tarot card out of his pocket and showed it to me. A grim half woman half octopus splayed across the front, titled The World. A single name on the back: Greta.

“It’s a clue,” he said, proudly.

“But what does this mean?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure that the boys at The Neon Boneyard will know. And even if they don’t, Flaming Whitney’s are the drink special tonight. So if all else fails, we can set ourselves to blotto while we figure out our next move.”

#

On the way to my apartment to change my pants, my friend told me about his day’s adventure. His jabbering jaws helped put my mind at ease, his emphatic grunts over locating Tang Girl giving me enough distance from my own squirrel-laden adventures to properly enjoy the rest of the sunny day.

My friend had been watching Tang Girl’s home for days with stalker-like determination. Having caught no sight of her, but only her poor kitties in the window, he’d taken it upon himself to break into her home and rescue the abandoned kitties. Tang Girl was nowhere to be seen, but he’d located multiple bowls of water and kitty chow. He’d already committed to the quest so despite the ample sustenance available to the cats, he’d quickly located a cat carrier and had stuffed them inside for good measure.

Having found no other evidence of Tang Girl in the immediate vicinity of the kitties, he did the next logical thing and searched her panty drawer. This is where he’d found the tarot card, nestled next to multiple pairs of lacy panties and a big black rubber dong.

When I suggested that he should’ve taken the dong too, that it could’ve been a clue, he looked at me as if I was a pervert, mumbling a series of comments meant to elicit a shame response in me. But this was no ordinary day of shame for me. I’d hit a new high. I refused to be ashamed for something as simple as suggesting a B&E on a giant chocolate dildo.

I had other squirrels to fry.

#

When we arrived at The Boneyard it was still very early. The gal at the door let us in even though they were still in the process of opening. My friend left the cats with the girl and gave her a tip for holding them. She took the money and the cats without batting an eye. Because that’s how they roll here. Nothing is too weird. Which made it the perfect place to investigate the meaning of this card.

We sat at the bar and ordered a Flaming Whitney each— a shot of flaming Drambuie served with a Coke back, straight up. My friend pulled out the card and handed it to the bartender along with some dirty dollar bills pulled from his pant pocket.

The bartender smiled, all pink lipstick, plastic tits and southern twang. She snapped her gum before speaking.

“Oh, yeah, I could see you guys being into that sort of thang. Just make sure to bring your goggles,” she said, winking, grabbing the cash.

My friend gave the air a few lusty fist pumps before going, “Ah! Ah! Ah! I knew it.”

“What sort of thing would that be?” I asked.

She pointed to the half woman half octopus creature on the front of the card. “A succupuss, of course… Now you’re just playing with me.”

But then I remembered we’d brought the cats which relaxed my kisser enough to feel the stool below it.

Cats are awesome when it comes to succubae. They tear that shit up.

“No, darlin’, a succupuss,” she said. “You don’t know what a succupuss is? Oh my, you guys are a couple babes in the woods, aren’t ya?”

My friend was still too busy being proud of himself to be of any use so I threw some more cash on the bar and told her to spill it, but minus all the judgment.

“Succupuss. Half harpy, half octopus, like super pretty and all but they got tits down to their waists and supposedly their cooches are like some irresistible death trap for men.”

This totally beat a masturbating squirrel and I was biting. I downed my drink eagerly then showed her the other side of the card. “You, by any chance, know any succupuss by the name of Greta?”

“Oh yeah, Tang Girl brought a gal in here. Real pretty, tits real low, said she was a tarot card reader down at Scamps. Don’t know for sure, but she very well could’ve been a succupuss. Or just a chick with real low titties and a fucked up tarot deck.”

“I knew it! I knew it!” my friend blustered. He went to throw more crumpled money on the bar but instead threw down a pair of lacy white panties stained orange.

“What’s that, man?! What’s that? Huh?” I asked.

My friend looked at me sheepishly, “A clue???”

My eyes set on his twitching unibrow.

“You get all down on me for the mere suggestion of bogarting a goddamn piece of plastic— clean, likely— and you had already gone all rat snatch pervy on her and B&E’d her crusty underwear? What’s wrong with you?!”

But he diverted his attention to the bartender, and as he often did, he began blowing her big juicy raspberries. But, hell, I had to let it go. He’s what psychologists refer to as “developmentally appropriate” for his age, which is just another way of saying he’s an utter emotional retard.

#

For a few more raspberries and a pair of Tang encrusted panties, we extracted Greta’s current location.

My friend rang the doorbell of Greta’s turn of the century Victorian. My friend poked at the kitties through the cage door while I went into a full head spin, waiting.

Having had enough distance and time from my earlier escapades with the squirrel, I had begun the process of teasing out the meaning of it all. As I hummed over the events in my mind, I realized that likely the squirrel had merely been aroused by the doggy shampoo-like scent of dryer sheets wafting off my freshly washed pants. And that my inability to turn away from the lusty little beast had more to do with respecting the right for all mammals to behave within their nature and persuasion than any real prurient interest I had in jilling squirrels— regardless of the fluids spilled on either of our parts.

It was a reasonable explanation of the events. One which I could accept. I cracked a smile. I’d been through worse. Try waking up in the taint ass heat of an L.A. sidewalk, your pants ankle bound, a sea cucumber no longer in its bucket. That shit will fuck you up.

A woman pretty-faced woman with pendulous, tube-topped breasts dangling down to her waist answered the door. I felt my circuits frazzle a bit in comprehending what was the most extreme example of a reverse butterface I’d ever seen.

My friend was equally discombobulated. “You fuck like a girl!” he said.

Entranced with the enormous dew sacks slapping her belted skirt, my friend spewed our entire game out in machine gun fashion, “We have Tang Girl’s kitties. And we know who you are and that you have her. And we won’t go until we get some… until we get her. So that’s why we’re here. And we heard you were a succupuss. Or possibly just a woman with unfortunate breasts. And a dark sense of humor. When it comes to tarot deck design. That’s right!”

Lustily fist pumping, of course.

The woman seemed to take this in stride and invited us in to wait for Tang Girl to arrive.

As happy as I was to have squared away in my mind the incident with squirrel, an ominous feeling settled into my belly as multiple slurpy sounds emanated from the other room. My friend seemed blissed out and unaware that bad things were about to go down.

“Fuck, man,” I said. “What the hell are we doing here? Obviously Tang Girl is mixed up in some twisted shit and is just fine. Let’s just leave the kitties and be on our way. The show is about to start. Let’s go.”

Greta entered the room, naked, her large raspberry nippled titties hanging just above a very long muff curtain not unlike a squirrel’s tail. She approached us hissing, then began humping the corner of the coffee table before dropping to the floor, rutting with babble.

“Maybe she has worms,” my friend said.

“Nah, man, that’d be her other end,” I replied.

Hot damn.

She flopped on her back, pushing aside her long, fluffy muff tail to expose, grotesque hanging labia smattered with barnacle-like protuberances. What appeared to be a mass of tentacles bloomed from her nasty cooch, writhing against her orange crusted thighs … but wait…

“Look away if you have to,” I told my friend. “But I think Tang Girl may be inside there! The crust, man, the crust!”

“We’ve got to save her!” my friend cried.

“Ah shit, she’s pulling us inside! Can you feel it?! Find some rope!”

My friend dug between the couch cushions and found a length of rope, a riding crop, and a pair of handcuffs. My score was a more normal half roll of strawberry Mentos that weren’t too hard.

Nommy.

The succupuss licked her lips, her eyes turning a glowing red, as tentacles parted and began rotating in fan like fashion around a mucus laden vaginal sphincter which loosened into an ever enlargening hole. Phosphorescent goo flung the room with slurpy whips and splatters. A creepy green light began shooting out from the orifice bathing us in a swampy, strobed light and mushroomy smell. The cats yowled wildly as my friend quickly attached them to us via rope and handcuffs. We were going in, whether we liked it or not.

“Viva le resistance!” my friend screamed.

Then another much louder noise joined the cacophony of cats, blubbering idiots and succupuss maw.

"Excuse me!"

The light disappeared from the succupuss’s snatch and eyes, and we fell to the ground like a pail full of sea cucumber— wet, sticky, out of element.

Tang Girl stood above us her hands fisted at her hips, snarling.

“Are those my cats?!”

The succupuss looked confused, and though the light had gone from her eyes and nether regions, her gaping puss remained open, and the tentacles continued to spin but more slowly.

Tang Girl placed her arm on the succupuss's shoulder, spoke to her tenderly "Greta, would you please close your maw? These are my friends."

#

Back at The Boneyard, we all had a good chuck. It turned out that the tarot reading succupuss had hired Tang Girl to teach her how to perform her signature trick. Which explained all the crusted Tang on her thighs and why she had left the cats with extra food and water. She knew these things took time. It was hard enough to teach a normal woman to fart dry Tang out her ass while simultaneously squirting fluid from deep within her maw, but a succupuss— with all those tentacles and shit in the way— she’d known she had her work cut out for her.

But we all got to pay the mortgage somehow.

Waiting for his damsel to enter the stage, my friend held his high ball of vodka below his chin to catch any Tang that might run down his face. The lights dimmed.

Tang Girl entered the stage nude except for the orange dreads hanging down past her ass. Daintily she glided over to the stage in front of where my friend was sitting— her would be hero. Squatting, she bent back in crab walk position, placing her cooch and bum just inches away from his face and fondled herself. A drum roll started then she simultaneously sent a large puff of dry tang from her bum and a stream of fluid from deep within her vajazelled cooch.

The crowd went mad with applause as the reconstituted Tang dripped down my friend’s chin, some of it making it into his highball of vodka. My friend slammed his drink then cleared his throat loudly, pumping his fist lustily to a Wooo-Weee.

Using my best jazz hands, I ordered a second round.

There would never be enough weirdness for us. Lusty fist pumps, crusty maws and plenty of Tang. That’s how we roll. And that’s The Tube Top Shebop Tang Yeah Woo truth.

“The Queen of Cups! I just wait for you, And it is bad. And it is wrong. And unhealthy.” She giggled and jiggled. “The Queendom in your Kingdom, is a fucking disaster, and a disgrace to the English language. And probably Spanish. And French too. It’s all Greek to you. I am the Queen of Queens, and that is not New York.” She was peeling cards off the deck, slowly moving around the room, not…

She crawled up over him, baby doll night gown under a flannel shirt, straddling him. He pulled at the ropes, gritting his teeth. The knots held. She reached for the amber bottle on the night stand, poured some in his mouth, on his chest, drank from it herself. Flipped over another card.

“Four queens, ace high, with a Cherry of a Star on top! Ooh baby! You are going places! Not right now though.” She leaned in next to his faced, licked his cheek.

“Do you know what I can do with a full deck? We won’t be playing with it sweetheart, and what’s up my sleeve, could ruin your life, with the gentle flutter of its’ wings. The song a siren sings, the ache of a fool between your legs. Maybe, I’m the one that begs…isn’t that right? Oooh, the Empress, preens for you.” She leaned over him, pretending to cut at the ropes with a card. “It’s the King of Swords, my favorite.” Her laughter rising. “Ooops. Oh baby, I cut your wrist a little. Let me kiss it.” And she did.

He pulled at the ropes again. Smiling.

“Six of cups! Beer pong! Get one wrong and you won’t make it to Double Jeopardy!”

She laughed, poured more of the contents of the bottle on him.

“I’ve never had my fortune told like this! My wife used to have a deck of those Rider Waite cards.” He licked his lips.

“Your wife? Rider Waite?” The sound she made wasn’t quite a chortle but all the sexy was gone out of it. “No, this is a new thing, this deck is purely Darkana and there’s beer in Texarkana.” She wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t smiling. She climbed off of him, backed away from the bed, lit a cigarette.

“Baby, baby I’m sorry.” He pulled at the ropes.

“Yeah. Yeah.” She picked at something in her teeth with her pinky nail, played at it with her tongue. There was a knock at the door. “Avon calling!” She laughed again.

He was tall, beanie cap pulled down over his ears. When he turned to close the door behind him his derby jacket flashed open just enough to reveal a shoulder holster and the gun that was in it. She was pulling on her skirt. Slipping her spiked pumps back on. She took off the flannel. Peeled off the baby doll nightgown, stuffed it in her purse, exposing a dagger tattoo on her left shoulder, a snake wrapped around the blade. She pulled her sweater back on. Slowly did up the buttons, never taking her eyes away from the bewildered face of the man tied to the bed. The man’s eyes were watering. Abe had probably stuffed the rag a little too far into the guy’s mouth. Abe liked to do that.

“He said he was a widow but then he said his wife used to have one of those old school decks. I got the pin number in the bar for his card when he paid for the drinks. Don’t know about the safe.” Cherry was picking up the cards, quickly wiping them off as she gathered them.

“Oh his wife is dead. I checked that. Nice payoff too. I got the safe worked out.” Abe was looking through the wallet. “This your daughter? “ He held up a picture. “She home?” The man was wide eyed, shaking his head, No. “She at school?” The man shook his head Yes. Abe screwed the silencer on, put a pillow over the man’s head. “Housekeeping should find you in the morning.” He pocketed the man‘s belongings. Took his watch. His hand at the small of Cherry’s back, guiding her out the door. “How’d you get him up here?”

“Estoy sangre gitana y el alma. Turned the Queen of Wands over on the bar, he was putty.” She shrugged.

“What’s that one again?” He was taking the beanie off, pulling off a fake mustache, changing his appearance as they made their way to the elevator.

“I am gypsy blood and soul.” She smiled at him.

“Oh I love that one, that‘s a good one.” The doors opened. “Now get in there, I’ma show you the King of Wands.”

Our shakings hands hold each other and our breath is visible inside the car. We sit parked at the edge of the world, shoulders pressed together, so quiet that the twinkle of the stars is an ambient static. I touch her face; push aside the long strands of golden silk from her eyes.

She doesn’t respond.

Her eyes rest somewhere out the front window, sending sapphire rays like daylight into the darkness. I try to read her mind, listen to her thoughts. She is frozen still, far away from here, drifting peacefully out to sea and being washed away from the tainted canvas of our life together.

I admire her dress, the way it falls over her chest. My eyes move to the dark space between her breasts. I kiss her neck and her skin blisters. I move my hand to her knee and her eyes close. My fingertips slide over her chill bumped thighs and her body braille reads, this isn’t rejection, but I need you to stop.

I don’t stop. My heart races as my hand inches toward her panties. Her hand reaches mine and our fingers tangle together, the two hands retreat back to the seat. She drops her head onto my chest and holds her eyes closed.

My heartbeat slows to rhythmic sledgehammer pulses and I try to embrace the warmth of her skin against mine, the itch of her hair on my neck. Her eyes are still closed. I tell her I love her and her eyes clamp down tighter. Suddenly we are trapped in uncomfortable silence. Our bodies melt together, sinking into the seat, and she finally caves. She submissively slides my hand into her shorts and turns her head away.

My heart feels like a wilted rose with no future as I run my fingers over the soft hair inside her underwear. Her body goes stiff, her breathing constricts. I pull off my jacket and wrap it around us. We lay still like beaten dogs. When I take away my hand, her knees come together and her heart slows down. She finally opens her eyes. Again, they fix on something far away. My eyelids fall and I feel her drifting away again.

Then without warning, in a voice as delicate as glass, she whispers, “I love you.”

Leaving the subway at night, I take one step before the first bum asks me for a dollar. In my coat pocket, I flip through a deck of cards and pull out a Three of Cups. I toss him a five. The next block, another person reaches out from the shadows of gray buildings and asks for a dollar. He sees my darkened face. Backing away, he says, "Never mind, man. Just forget it."

I pull out a card. Major Arcana. The Wheel of Fortune. Luck. I crumple up a twenty and throw it at him. It bounces off his chest and onto the ground. The wind blows it away. His eyes, dark and dry, like cocoa powder, don't leave mine as he retreats.

"Pick it up," I say.

He has dusty dark skin. His lips are prominent and pink. He tracks the money rolling in the traffic breeze.

"Get it now," I say.

His movement is slow, like a lie. He steps on the twenty. His clothes are the mishmash of secondhand stores and alley garbage. Plastic bags wrap his feet for socks. He wears three jackets. The outer one is olive green so that, I suppose, he can pass for a vet for the tourists.

He picks up the bill and edges back toward his spot on the wall. "Thank you," he says.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Billy, sir," he says. Cars rush by, litter floats in the airstream, lit by the headlights.

"Well, Billy Sir, I'm gonna call you Lucky, because today is your lucky day. Change is about to happen. You and I are going to become the best of friends."

Lucky doesn't seem to trust me. His head turns to the left and he darts to the right.

I grab him by his innermost jacket and pull him up close. His fight or flight has turned to freeze. Fitted tightly into the jugular notch of his throat is a thin 6-inch triangular blade. This knife is designed for slipping between ribs from behind or for perforating the diaphragm, and cutting open the heart. But I don't want Lucky dead.

Right now, Lucky is looking at a very ugly person. I'm wearing a ten-thousand dollar jacket, a thousand dollar shirt, five-hundred dollar tie. My pants and boots cost double that. Everything I wear has a complicated Italian name I don't know.

This knife hangs like St. Peter's cross on my chest, always ready.

"Now, Lucky," I say. "I'm gonna take this knife away from your throat and you're going to do what I say. Because today is your lucky day, Lucky. That's what I think. The cards say so."

I pull the knife away. Lucky swallows. He doesn't reach for his throat.

"What 'd you want, sir?" His pupils reflect my face.

"There isn't any use in asking," I say. I flip the knife over in my hand and present it, hilt first, to Lucky. He doesn't move.

"Take the knife. Here," I take off the necklace with the sheath. "Put it on, but be careful because that blade is incredibly illegal. Look, I'll sheath it for you. Don't move. I'm just slipping it over your head. See, now you've got the weapon. I've got your attention."

There's no doubt about either of those facts. He nods, "Sir."

I turn and point to up the street. "That's where we're going, Lucky. I've got business to do, and you're coming with me. So follow me, try not to step on my feet, and for God's sake, don't pull that pig sticker out if you can help it."

I keep him close as I turn up a street and walk past the tiny shops and restaurants of Little Asia. Not even enough people of one nationality to call it China Town. Lucky stays close.

We arrive at a storefront with swords on display next to kimonos and chopsticks and bootleg Bruce Lee DVDs. Advertising Massage and Acupuncture. It has a picture of a Sherpa climbing Everest on a yellowed hardback book. I push open the door and let Lucky in first.

Nobody shoots him; nobody stabs him.

"Hu?" I call.

"What?" Lucky says.

"If this turns into an Abbot and Costello bit, I swear to god I will stab you in the face," I say.

An old man comes out from behind beaded curtains that tinkle with the sound of spring rain on a tin roof. He appears ancient and frail. Ha.

I pull out the Ace of Cups. "Hu, this is Lucky. Take care of him."

Hu yells in Mandarin for his oldest 'daughter', which is a polite way of saying it. With the curtains still swaying, a young girl in a red kimono walks down the stairs behind the beads. A supine crimson dragon curves around the girl's dress.

"Go with her," I say. She parts the curtains and holds out hands too small to belong to an adult. Her fingernails match the color of the dragon. Her black hair is in a knot on her head. From across the room, her scent of ginger and pussy seduces me. Lucky reaches out to hers.

She giggles and pulls Lucky through the curtain.

"Over here, Mr. Tear," Hu says. He motions me to a door behind the counter. The store is packed with cheap bullshit. The Kama Sutra in full color and illustrated with photographs of almost underage Chinese couples, an ornamental katana next to a deck of I-Ching cards. Books of Oriental religions, foods, and rugs. Everything priced double what would be considered outrageous.

I walk past a thigh-high golden Buddha and around the counter to the small room. A stack of money rests next to a gun on a desk in the middle of the glorified closet. The gun points toward the door. "I owe you," Hu says pointing to the money or the gun or both.

"No charge," I say. "That wasn't a job."

"Nothing free," Hu says. He speaks without 'be' verbs, unless he forgets himself and that English is his first language. "I pay you. Girl? Money? Sword?"

I put my hand in my pocket. The card is the Five of Pentacles. No reward. "No."

Hu's eyes go from narrow into slits. If I won't take payment from him, he thinks I've already taken payment from some other source. I can see this in his stance as clearly as I can watch him measure his distance to the gun.

I can read bodies. I can read cards. I can't read faces. "Don't try it, Hu. There's no problem. There's no contract."

"You wouldn't lie to an old friend just to make his death easier, would you?" he asks without even a hint of accent.

"Do I seem like the guy who cares?"

"No," he admits. He's still wavering. His lips purse and nostrils flare. His eyebrows work themselves up and down, but his hands don't jitter. He's got no nerve for action.

"I'll be in the bar," I say. "Send my friend in when he's done."

"Friend?" Hu says.

"Whatever he is, send him down when he's done."

I leave the room without watching Hu. He's got it worked out now, or he's given up working it out. His card is the Two of Swords. We're even.

The second door in Hu's little shop leads to the the restaurant next door. American Chinese food. Not a bit authentic. Just reheated frozen food. Cook some pork fried rice, maybe add a long black hair from a 'daughter'. But beneath that restaurant is a bar that doesn't have a name. It has one way in. The door doesn't open inward.

I knock. Say a name, "Mr. Nail." The door opens, smoke pours out. It's sour and sweet and cloying. Tobacco and chocolate and sage and sandlewood. Small multicolored spotlights illuminate the room, tracing beams of blue, red, yellow, orange, green through the smoke. Tables are set up for four. The bar is fifteen feet long and made from a single slab of jade. There isn't anything with a label I can understand behind the bar. The only beer on tap is PBR. The place is empty except for the bartender and the bouncer

The bartender asks me what I want.

"That brown bottle."

"Fifty bucks a shot."

I nod He puts it in front of me, and sidles away.

Opium rice wine tastes like dirt and rubbing alcohol and sugar. Thin and acidic, it burns my throat as quickly as it numbs it. The second drink, I inhale. My lungs spasm to push the liquid out, and it takes all my will to stop this involuntary action. I want to drown in a drop of water. I pull out a card. Five of Wands. Strife.

I keep drinking. The bartender stands in the shadows at the end of the bar. The bottle sits in front of me like an icon. Lights pass, smoke flows through the room, the music changes from the sounds of a zither and slow drums to 70's rock.

"Sir?" I hear Lucky say behind me. "Sir, you okay?"

"You're done?"

"Yes, sir,” Lucky sits next to me. "Is that your name? Mr. Tear?"

"No," I say.

"What should I call you?"

I pull out a card and place it face up on the counter. Death.

“What's that mean?” Lucky says.

“Change,” I say. “Probably a good thing. Change from whatever you were before this. From a bum to something else.”

“But it's death,” he says.

I take another drink. “It's symbolic.”

Lucky lights a cigarette. Small scabs cover the back of his hands. His fingernails are yellowed and thick. "What are we doing here?" he finally asks.

“Good question.” I put Death away, flip through the deck in my pocket, pull out another. The Hanged Man.

I don't say anything. I turn to look at him and he is much changed. The cake of dirt that dotted his face has disappeared under the care of Hu's "daughter". His clothes have been pressed while he was with her.

Across the room, there is an empty stage three feet high. Smoke belches from a fog machine beneath it, so it's hard to make out the bodies that are starting to emerge. Crouched low. I take the bottle from Lucky and take another sip.

"You don't talk much, do you?" he says just before a bullet passes through his head and emerges from the space between his eyebrows. The back of his head blows open as his body lurches past me.

The sound is muffled, but a silencer is only partially effective. I yank the necklace over what's left of Lucky's head before leaping over the bar. The brown bottle explodes. Shards hit me in the back. The gunfire sounds electric.

I duck walk quickly behind the bar. The bartender at the other end is pointing at me and waving his hands. I step into him, digging the blade deep into his crotch. He drops in pain, but the slicing of his femoral artery keeps him down. Blood slicks the floor.

I stay crouched behind the edge of the bar. Smoke swirls around the corner. I reach out and grab hair. My fingers wrap around long tangles. I yank and slam the triangular blade into the open mouth of the face that comes into view. His tongue licks against my wrist.

I pull my hand out and the warmth of blood follows with a delicate spurt. I pull out a card. The Fool. Smiling, I take the gun out of the dead man's grasp.

Larry peers. He arches his fingers to erase his reflection in the window. He has seen movement in the left behind home, and wants to prove himself right. Again, there it was. Black moving in black, in form and precise. Keeping the boy's eye until it hurt from forgetting to blink. Bit by little, the boy thinks he can see in the dark. The black is cleaning itself from his view.

"Hands," he hums into the glass. Stiff, spotted fingers kept pattern over a dark bowing of fibers. All being more and more defined despite the dark. In his hypnosis, the boy hadn't realized the lantern on the small table. It wasn't his vision that was better, it was the room that was brighter.

Eventually, Larry had a shadow painted on the trees behind him. When his eyelids gave way, he would flinch against a sting of tears rushing over eyeballs. His vision settled and matched sight with a man who had been staring at him since he first balanced his hands on the dark house's window.

Larry was frozen, choking on saliva, and immobile against the dirty glass. The sound of the home's door broke the child's concentration. Still fixed on the old man, who was still working his fingers across the thin black threads, he footed towards the threshold. He had not heard the man ask him inside. He walked in invited.

The boy made short distance to the old man's sitting room, and took a small chair across from his host. The old man was now intent on his project.

"Who are you boy?" the hermit asked, fatigued and dusted.

"Lawrence," peeped the raspy youngster.

"Your family's name?"

"I forgot."

The curmudgeon pressed his thumb against the rows of fine black, and slid against them creating a sharp whine. A small stringed instrument sat on the man's table, he brought the bowed threads against. The sound tensed the boy's shoulders. The ring kept unseen hands on the boy, he dared not move, and could not.

"Do people speak of me?" spoke the man.

"I don't know."

"There was a reason you came here. To investigate a lonely old soul? Catch him sleeping? Take his things?"

"I don't talk to the people in town. I came because of other stories."

"Other stories?"

"The devil," his voice shook, "The devil lives here. That's what the boys say. That why it's always dark. There are no animals that go near here. Loud music gets quiet when you're close to this place."

The old man showed no interest in the boy's hypothesis, "This should scare a child of your age." "I'm not scared of anything."

"Had the devil been here waiting for you? You wouldn't have run frightened then?"

"If you, sir, were the devil. Where would I run?"

The elder picks up his instrument and tests his strings. He holds a threaded stick over the child's head. "Have you seen one of these?"

"Yes. It's a bow. The street performers use them in the markets."

"What it's made of?"

"Sheep's stomach. I asked of of their jugglers."

"Any stomach will do boy."

Larry shuffled, tapping his chair legs on the planks. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Bothering you. Sir. I'll leave."

"If you go now. You'll die, son."

Larry petrified himself in the chair. Clutching his seat, pressing the chair leg against the half scissor hidden in his sock.

"There are four others," the old man tightened his bow. "If you want to survive this house, you will give them to me."

"You? What will you do with them? How will I give them to you?"

"I applaud you, boy. You do not defend the honor of those bastard children you pick pockets with. You save your own hide."

"Why you?"

"You said it, Lawrence. The devil lives in this house. Don't you hear his music?"

"Will you hurt them?"

"No not I. Little demons, child."

"Will you hurt me?"

"Not if you let me have them."

"Martin. Be easy with Martin. You can have the other three, but Martin is my friend."

"All of them," the old man said, meeting eyes with the boy. Choking him with indignation.

The boy's face was contorting, holding back his bladder. Angrily he kicked the chair from behind him. Larry ripped his sock revealing his broken scissor.

"You stay back. You devil fuck. You can't do any of this. If we find you near us, we'll kill you."

"If you had not truly believed, you would walk out of here as calm as you came. The fear is all the faith I need, child. You do not need to see my end of our arrangement. You just need to tell me they are mine."

Larry didn't answer, he ran. Through the missing door that had opened for him. Over bones that belonged to small animals he hadn't walked over before. Through the trees, panting hard, coughing in the chilling wind. Music screeching, inches behind him, louder each mile he'd put between himself and the cabin.

The leaves covered the sun until he was running in the dark. He would bash his ankles against arching roots, and collect mouthfuls of spider's webs. The boy's hips crushed against the trunk of a tree, ripping his pockets, and scattering coins on the ground brush. He drops to his knees patting the ground with fury to collect the fallen money. "I stole it fair," his mind screamed, "not for nothing! Not for nothing!" They were lost. He ran again, thinking he heard music.

A barn was in sight. An old edifice, stricken with webs and dander, giving an empty appearance. The open door strung across by dusty silks. The boys used a hole in the barn's side, the sight of spiders kept other children from curiosity. Anything worth stealing from this place was long since looted. It was a home for the five runaways. As safe as they were allowed to feel.

He would damn the spiders, and hurt their homes. Larry rushed through the barn door, laced with white, pale from the frightening dash. He wanted his friends to be aware of his ordeal, to fear along with him. He could only yell. Shouting blankly through the barn. There was an other yell. Short and strained with scared violence.

"Martin... Martin..." he said through bloody tonsils, "you fucking... you fucking stabbed-"

"I'm sorry!" Martin began to run to the door. "The noise has the police on the way!," he shouted behind him, "They can't find me."

Looking around. Ground level. The highest he could lift his head. He saw the three boys, panting to death, clutching abdomen, and dying in the straw. Greedy Donavin, bringing assault for his lost coins. Larry stole them fair. Mott crying his final breath out. Harold, knees down, head against the floor, not moving.

Larry peers. He arches his fingers to smudge sweat from his forehead. He has seen movement in the left behind home and wants to prove himself right.

The police have occupied the barn. They inspect from boy to boy. They do not ask if they are hurt, if they need help, if they have homes. Larry raises himself. He chokes a lea to the policemen. He removes the half-scissor from his stomach, and presents it to the men. The inspector before him gets wide eyes, draws his pistol in panic and shoots the boy in his eyebrow.

Martin runs. He is running from the report of gunfire from the barn. He can hear music loudly behind him. The sound is getting quieter, he feels safer.

Ms. Teri: Thank you for calling The House of Cards, where your future is always in the cards. This is Ms. Teri speaking. Can I have your name and date of birth, honey?

Simon: Oh, yeah. Simon. August seventeen, sixty-eight. Is this the real Ms. Teri? Like, from the commercials?

Ms. Teri: (Laughs) Of course, honey. Who else would it be?

Simon: I don't know, another random psychic? I've been trying to reach you for hours, but I get someone else every time. What, do you people run an all-seeing cubicle farm?

Ms. Teri: (Laughs) Not at all, honey. Our network just happens to employ many of us who have the gift. As for me, I am indeed the real Ms. Teri, at your service. Now, Simon, you're calling for a reading, correct? And you-

Simon: (Audible Noise)

Ms. Teri: Hello? Are you there?

Simon: Yeah, sorry. Just getting out of my car. I'm here.

Ms. Teri: No problem, honey. And you agree to the standard $5.99 per minute fee?

Simon: Mmm-hmm, sure.

Ms. Teri: Excellent. I'd like to begin by giving you a tarot card reading. Do you have a particular layout in mind? The Celtic Cross? Mirror? The Mandala Spread?

Simon: I don't know. Regular, I guess?

Ms. Teri: (Laughs) All right. Tonight, I'll be using the traditional five card spread. Now then, how can the fates help you, Simon? Is it Love? Money? Career advice, perhaps?

Simon: Actually (Pause) I'm about to make a pretty big decision. I want to know if I should go through with it.

Ms. Teri: What kind of decision, honey? Tell me about it.

Simon: Shouldn't you know by now? You're the psychic.

Ms. Teri: (Laughs) In that case, let's begin. (Pause) Hmm... I see.

Simon: What is it?

Ms. Teri: Well, your first card, the center card, represents your present situation. Where you are in life. And I've just drawn the Hierophant.

Simon: Is that good?

Ms. Teri: Normally, yes. The Hierophant represents knowledge. Ritual. Morality. But if the Hierophant is drawn in reverse, it means the opposite. Poor advice. A distortion of truth. Propaganda.

Ms. Teri: I see. Well, the picture is becoming clearer, Simon. Now we move to the right of the Hierophant. With past and present revealed, we must take a look at your future. (Pause) Oh, my...

Simon: That doesn't sound good.

Ms. Teri: The cards have many meanings, honey, but the reversed Nine of Swords is especially fickle. True, it can represent despair, but it can also be read as isolation, either mentally or physically. Would you consider yourself to be a private person, Simon?

Simon: These days? Yeah. You could say that.

Ms. Teri: Well, we must be careful to interpret these last cards correctly. You've come in search of advice about a major decision in your life, and this fourth card, the one placed below the Heirophant, will give me the reason why you've chosen to consult with the fates.

Simon: So you're about to find me out, huh?

Ms. Teri: (Laughs). I only speak what the fates already know, honey. Now then, I will... (Pause) Oh.

Ms. Teri: Simon, you've recently experienced major changes in your life because of deception, haven't you?

Simon: That's (Pause) actually, yeah. Oddly accurate.

Ms. Teri: As I've told you, honey, nothing is beyond the Fates' gaze. Which brings us to your final card, the one that will show us the potential hidden within the outcome of your decision. When placed above the Hierophant, all will finally be revealed.

Simon: I can hardly wait.

Ms. Teri: (Long Pause) Ah ha!

Simon: What? What is it?

Ms. Teri: I've drawn the Eight of Wands. It is a card of hope, Simon. A card that signifies the importance of moving forward, that the time and conditions are right for you to take charge of your own destiny.

Simon: So, you're saying (Pause) I should go through with it?

Ms. Teri: You've known the answer all along, haven't you, honey?

Simon: I guess I have. Thank you Ms. Teri. You've been very helpful.

Ms. Teri: It's my pleasure, Simon. Now, if you don't mind my saying, coping with spousal infidelity can be a very difficult time. How about we do a tea-leaf reading next? I find them to be especially helpful in dealing with separation and divorce-related issues.

Simon: I've got a better idea. How about I do a reading for you?

Ms. Teri: I'm sorry?

Simon: Yeah, I'm looking into my crystal ball right now, and I'm seeing a no-talent fraud. I'm seeing someone who charges $5.99 a minute to give marriage advice to women who believe in this shit.

Maybe we should call the radio station and request a song. Why don’t you request a story instead? Okay, here’s one. I’m out of jail three days and my girl starts telling me about how some asshole she works with proposed to her. This is her version. She says, "We went on this hike, which was his idea. We were actually lost for awhile, sweating and coughing when he finally got down on his knee…

Well, at least he didn’t try to make it all perfect. More interesting with her all sweaty and all.

Just listen. That's when she tells me, "Yeah, it was fate. He actually found an arrowhead and gave it to me and said that it was symbolic and that’s why he’d decided to do it right there on the spot."

Red flag.

I know, right? My bullshit detector is in overdrive now. I go, "Wait, hold on, so he wouldn’t have proposed if he hadn’t found that arrowhead?" She thinks a second and says, "I guess not. So what?" So I ask, "What did it look like?" and she's all confused. I repeat, "What did it look like? Was it big? Small?" "That big," she says holding her fingers about three inches apart like I’m doing right now. "What color?" "I don't know. Rock color." "Did you see him find it?" "Yeah." "Did you see him pick it up?" "I think so. Why?" she asks. "Nothing. Keep going," I say, and she goes on with her story, "So, it was great because the last time we went hiking out there, I found an arrowhead. And he said he almost proposed to me back then." "Whoa, back up!" I cough, "You found one years before?" "Yeah, so what?" "Okay, remember when you said you were lost? Who was lost?" She thinks hard, "He was. He’s the one who goes there to fish, not me." "Yeah, no shit he goes fishing." I mutter. Then I almost grab her head so she’ll pay attention to what I’m saying, "Just think about this for a second though. Don’t you think that he may have just been pretending to be lost so he could find this arrowhead he’d stashed, or better yet actually got lost looking for the arrowhead he’d stashed just so he could find it in front of you and then act like it inspired him to propose?"

What did she say?

She got mad. But that was nothing compared to how mad he was when I asked him about it.

No shit. Arrowhead, my ass! I’d take that thing to the fucking lab. Try to find the bar code on the back of it. Maybe the ring, too. Hey, you should mail her a big-ass bag of arrowheads in the mail with a note saying "Thanks for your bulk order! Here's some more for anniversaries!"

He was right though.

About what?

That it was symbolic.

Why’s that?

Because I stuck it in his fucking eye. Well, tried to. More like stuck it in his ear. No, I'm just kidding, man. Keep that door shut.

* * *

How far did you say you were going?

I can take you about 20 more miles.

Appreciate it.

Hey, you keep me awake, and I'll keep you moving. And if you’re trying to scare me with that talk about jail, keep it up. I need to drive about ten more hours anyway, and that shit's better than coffee.

I wasn’t trying to scare anyone. Just talkin’. I figured you didn't scare easy. Anyone that picks up someone under that sign.

What sign?

"Prison Area: Don't Pick Up Hitchhikers?"

Didn't notice.

Okay, you know what I overheard outside the gate? This mom and dad were talking to their daughter - she was real little - about some wedding, and they said, "You don’t want to be the flower girl?" And this little girl, about half the size of a cricket, says, "No. I want to be the dragon!"

Ha! I want to see that wedding.

Loved it. What does that even mean?

What’s up with this theme, man? I don’t pick up an ex-con to hear about weddings. What else you got?

Hey, you're the one dressed like you just got back from a wedding.

What are you trying to say?

Whoa, man. Sorry. Just trying to entertain your ass, pay for my ride.

Do you smoke?

Huh? No.

Here, take one of mine. You should, you know. Hitchhikers are supposed to smoke. Makes you look more normal. Kind of like walking and eating a sandwich. Makes your odds go up. Getting a ride I mean.

Am I reading these signs right?

What?

Did I really just leave "Moon" and am now entering "Mars?"

Yep. Just outside Pittsburgh.

What time’s that job interview again?

We’re in the middle of it.

***

When you worked as a captioner, how many captions did you type a day?

I don't know. Thousands?

That's not that much.

Nothing ever sounds like that much. When an astronomer says, "There’s hundreds of thousands of stars up there right now," it never sounds like enough, does it?

Not even close.

Who are you talking to?

Did you know that in closed captioning, you desperately wait for a man to be by himself so he won’t fucking speak.

I can believe that. Wait, was that a hint?

Hey, you see that sign?

The one that says "Stay Off Shoulders?"

Exactly. I'm gonna have to ask you to cease that back rub immediately.

Oh, sorry.

I want to work on a train. That would be like being paid to be in a car without having to worry about the driving.

All the momentum. None of the responsibility.

***

Job interview, huh?

Yeah, it’s the third one. I nailed the first two. Closest I’ve ever got.

Third interview? If you don’t have the job after two, you should hang it up. What is there left to ask you about?

Well, the first one was the asking. The second one was typing. The third is apparently urine. Can't drive a limo forever, you know? Got to get back to my training.

Damn. Drug tests, eh? Well, you shouldn’t have to worry about that. Now, if they showed you ink blots, then you might have a problem.

You should talk. All you’d see are a bunch of weddings.

No. I’m used to those tests. I already have a harmless list memorized no matter what they show me. “Dog, cat, duck, spider, lizard, crab, praying mantis.” And if I’m up against the wall, “Half a duck.” Why do you keep talking about weddings when you’re the one wearing a tux?

Good question.

So, how did you take a typing test with your hand like...

It doesn’t change anything. Actually, it makes me faster.

I took a urine test for a new job once and found it to be a very nerve-wracking experience. Not because there were any drugs in my system but because I normally drink a shitload of water every day and it turns out that too much water in the sample can be considered “diluted.” Add my pot-tokin’ friend who said I should drink all the water I could because of the contact high from shaking his hands or taking his phone calls. So I chug about nine glasses, then grab a phone book to find the lab closest to me that did this testing. They were closed. And the next closest one was also the furthest. I call them anyway and I’m told they’re closing soon but I might make it if I hurry. The girl on the phone says, “Fine. Hurry up. But please make sure you can urinate when you get here because we hate when people come in at the last minute and can’t perform!” So I run back to the faucet and slam three more glasses of water and crash out of my house, bladder visibly swelling like a conjoined twin as I painfully stub my stomach on my car door. I drive slightly slower than the speed of sound and jump a curb as I come flying in hot with about ten seconds to spare. The angry girl from the phone meets me in the lobby with a cup and yells as I’m running to the bathroom. “Don’t flush! Please do not flush the toilet or your test is disqualified!” “Why not?” I ask over my shoulder, zipper halfway down. “Because people use fake bladders and flush them all the time.” I want to ask her more about this bizarre image, but I have no time. In the bathroom, ready to burst, I hose the cup with the weight and velocity of ballistic missile exhaust. But I can’t stop. And the waves are quickly approaching the brim. “Do you have any more cups?!” I shout through the door as the surface tension bubbles and strains around the edges. I hold my breath to try to lower the pressure. “What?” she asks indifferently. So I turn broken hydrant toward the toilet in desperation and, I’m totally serious here, begin to fill that to the top, too. The water is just getting ready to pour over the rim and onto my feet when I reflexively reach out and flush. “What are you doing?!” she screams from outside, suddenly interested. “Saving your life!” I scream back. When I’m finally out and the tsunami has calmed down, she holds my cup up to the light, squinting. Proudly, I tug on my belt and say, “Got fifty more cups you need filled? Is there an orphanage on fire nearby?” But she just squints harder then mutters, “Hmm, they might send this back because it’s too clear.” I’m like, “What?! You just told me to drink a bunch of water, Doc!” And she shrugs and says “Maybe they won’t. But we’ll see.” So I go home all paranoid and hit the internet. Big mistake. I read about people failing drug tests just for watching stoner movies three hours before their tests or even singing along to popular ‘60s songs on the way to the lab. It also says that people usually shave their heads so they can’t do a follicle test on them, too. I start thinking, “Oh, no. I just shaved my head yesterday and I drink water. I am the most suspicious drug addict on the planet. I will never be hired again with such a cranium and twelve gallons of crystal-clear piss that pours forth from my body like a pure Arctic stream!”

Did you pass?

I don’t know. I started cutting the neighbor's grass instead. Less stress, lots of water to drink from a hose, and I could listen to music all day.

The Venice boardwalk is home to those who have failed the dream and tourists who have come to discover their ‘inner selves’. In the day time it is a tourist ground for people who would be afraid of what happens at night. My stand hides me from the sun. I stretch my arm out, like a hitchhiker. Seashell necklaces hang from my arm like war trophies out onto the boardwalk.

“Take a real bit of LA home with you,” I shout to surfboard clones heading towards the biggest set of waves. Further down the boardwalk is a man selling hotdogs; we both look at each other and nod with faces that suggest our souls have melted away in the sun. A girl with dark brown hair comes to my stall and inspects my merchandise. Most of it found on the very beach she has been lying on. She wears sunglasses so I can’t see the colour of her eyes and a shirt so I can see her breasts. I wonder if this means if she is wearing underwear.

“If you need help with anything, let me know.” I say to her. Her head moves up in my direction, but her sunglasses hide whether she heard me. She runs a few more shells through her fingers and then puts everything back where she found it, and walks down the boardwalk. I stand there watching her walk away, the way her ass carries her into the sunshine. Her beauty may turn so many heads that the sun will stay up longer just to see her.

“Hey, Johnson,” Turner says to me.

“Yeah?”

“Get this,” he says, with a smile bearing teeth so I know what he says next will be hilarious. “What if we send the receptionist up to Angela in accounting with a note that just says – you’re fired!”

We both start laughing and Owen walks into the room with three beers in the bottle and asks what we were laughing about. Turner repeats the jokes to Owen and he laughs so hard that he almost knocks over the beers before he can hand them to us. We look out of our boardroom. The building towers over London. We founded the company ourselves ten years ago as teenagers, now we sip cold ones overlooking the houses of parliament.

“It’s the simple things,” I say to Turner and Owen. They both nod. We finish our drinks and head into the lobby. On the last day of the month we always head out somewhere to celebrate our success. It may be extravagant and somewhat cliché, but it’s the simple things. Our elevator carries us down into the lobby. We stop by the reception desk and talk to Jenny, our intern on her break from university. She knows where all the good places are. She tells us about a club she knows where all the students go nowadays and for some reason that’s the crowd that we follow. It must look cool for them, when we walk in the club and buy the champagne. We’re dressed up in our suits ready to go out. The radio comes on and plays the song from the beginning of Reservoir Dogs and I decide that I’d like to be Mr Pink.

The sun has set and now the worst of California has come out to play under the shroud of nightfall. I fold up my stand into the back of my car; three trips across the boardwalk to fit everything in the trunk. My money stays on me at all times and I can tell from my untouched merchandise that it is the only valuable thing I have to offer. My last trip allows me to get close to my car. The darkness makes the ocean waves crashing on the beach seem violent. The negative force of nature. The beach is quiet now, other than the sound of night clubs in the distance and a squeal of a car horn echoing through the streets. A man walks up to me under the cover of the darkness.

“Give me all your money or I’ll kill you where you stand,” he says, grabbing my throat.

“Don’t kill me, please. I have a daughter.” I say. I lie.

I hand the man the scraps of dollar bills I own and chuck him a few coins with the faces of dead presidents on it for good measure too. I hand him a necklace with seashells on it.

“I don’t want this shit,” he says. He can see the disappointment in my face. He indents it with a single punch. I lay on the floor, my tears mixing with seashells and the waves keep breaking the beach.

The booth overlooks the dance floor and the three of us feel like emperors of the coliseum. People dance before us on the floor like it’s their last night on earth. Champagne flows out the bottle and the three of us clink our glasses together and the noise sounds like a schoolboy playing the triangle. We sit and drink, we smoke and we take girls home in our cars and we fuck. The morning after hangover serves as a memento to the preceding night. I clear my head with a couple of aspirin and a glass of cranberry juice in ice. I wait for my blonde debutant to leave and after my chief cooks me breakfast I head back into London, into the office. I drive a convertible even though it rains all the time. I drive past the Thames, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament and feel an overwhelming sense of pride about the country. For better or for worse, we’ve been here longer – we’re old. And America hasn’t got shit on that. I park and head into the reception and talk to Jenny about my night. I go straight up to my office and turn on my computer, turn around and look out of my window at the ever moving city in front of me. It’s the simple things.